


my love and I, we're a mystery

by slyther_ing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Comes with the job, Dark, Gang AU, M/M, Marcus is a hitman, Minor Character Death, Slytherin vs Gryffindor gang rivalry, There's little morality in this fic, Violence, but barely - its glossed over in descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 12:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7977004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus Flint got the file - read the file - understood the file; or so he thought. </p><p>Oliver Wood proves to be more of an enigma than a pretty face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my love and I, we're a mystery

**Author's Note:**

> A change in setting for these two - not quite sure if this falls under angst or whatnot, but dark!Marcus and Oliver were fun to play with.
> 
> Also: the two in leather jackets. A good source of inspiration.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Marcus Flint hears about Oliver Wood on a Sunday.

The city is smoking. Or so it looks like, grey tendrils creeping up towards the even greyer sky and Marcus thinks that sometimes it’s pure luck that he’s able to hit his mark. 

His scope is always accurate, though. Trigger finger steady. Malfoy wants this man dead, for a reason Marcus never bothers to care about (caring, oh caring – hit men don’t have hearts, silly) and when the red head falls to the ground, frizzy haired companion letting out an inhumane shriek, Marcus lets himself fade like smoke.

Pucey waits for him back at headquarters, meticulously wiping down each and every weapon with a fervent touch reserved for lovers. Marcus places his rifle in the line, and Pucey raises an eyebrow.

“Clean.” Marcus says. Nobody ever sees him – too distracted by brains splattered onto cement. He’s clean. His kills always are.

Pucey whistles lowly. “The little brat will be pleased.”

“Don’t let him catch you saying that.”  Marcus says, looking over his shoulder reflexively.

“His father did a number on you, didn’t he?” Pucey asks, always too nosy. One day it’ll get chopped off and Marcus would wear it as a key chain if he had any keys. The weapons expert hands Marcus back his rifle, sparkling and clean of fingerprints. It won’t get out of Marcus’ sight – but it’s protocol.

“Malfoys run this side, Pucey. You’ll do well to remember it.” Flint says coldly, and he heads towards Higgs’ quarters to pick up his next assignment.

It's a constant movement and he’s hard as rock – unbreakable, Malfoy crows triumphantly after every successful kill – but Marcus never stays in one place for long. The city’s been split into four after the governmental collapse and Malfoy drools after total control. This has been his fourth folder of the week and each redhead falls with less fanfare, all blurring in Marcus’ sharp eye, bleeding one into the other.

Higgs has his Italian leather boots placed lazily on the desk and he flips through the bills and stacks of money with all the precision of a former banker – it’s not that Malfoy doesn’t have money; it’s that Terence gets them more.

A bat of doe eyes, a coy smirk – even in the city, desperate men are easy prey.

“So?” Marcus asks. Higgs tosses a black folder into his hands. Same as the last four, but this one weighs heavier in his palm.

“Boss is adamant about this one.” Higgs smiles, all teeth and no comfort.

 _Oliver Wood_ is typed up at the top in small nondescript letters, but the face staring up at Marcus from the page is anything but. Eyes too big and innocent to be placed on such a hard set face, and so young, so young – the age says twenty-five in cool black ink, but Marcus can’t see past eighteen.

“Wood.” Marcus rolls the name on his tongue. It tastes bitter and like the crackle of fire in the air.

Higgs watches him over his stack of bills. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard?”

Marcus waits. Higgs stretches, lazily, slinks like a cat over to Marcus’ side and flips to the second page. Leader, former athlete turned dark, Malfoy’s favorite opposing gang. No kills to his name, but a proficiency with knives that lets Marcus know the previous information was a lie.

This boy (man, man, Marcus’ head whispers, remember his age) is deceptive. Intriguing – almost human on the page. Marcus vows to take him down without blinking.

***

He spots Oliver Wood for the first time on a Monday.

He’s on the rooftop, dull dark cover for a dull dark man, and he has the gang leader in sight. Little red circles center in on his forehead and Wood is so dumb, so oblivious to be standing in the middle of the road. 

It’s not a forehead in his scope anymore, but brown eyes too innocent to be found on what Marcus now realizes is a cruel character. Wood stares directly at him and Marcus could pull the trigger right now – metal cool underneath his fingertips, safety unlocked, bullet right between the eyebrows.

It’s his job. Wood is standing like a sitting duck, waiting patiently. Challenging.

Marcus doesn’t shoot because he is no longer clean. Wood doesn’t smile. He watches the leader walk away, back turned as if secure in the notion that it is not yet Marcus’ turn to make his move.

A dead snake finds its way to headquarters that afternoon – ‘ _give me your assassin and I will give you ours_ ’ and Malfoy shakes with silent fury that someone has the gall to taunt. He drives a wrench into the wall behind Marcus, before snarling orders to pack his greatest weapon away.

Malfoy still wants Wood dead. Marcus intends to deliver.

Pucey is silent throughout the whole drive, barely glancing at the guards and barbed fences that separate where the borders of their two gangs meet. Marcus taps a steady rhythm against his window – two, three, four. Two eyes, three seconds too long, and four steps for Wood to turn away.

Their car pulls up and no one makes a move to unleash Marcus. Pucey blows smoke rings into Marcus’ face, who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t flinch, flinches. “Careful, Flint. Wood’s known for making people soft.”

Marcus is disbelieving because yes – regular people but he is Flint and he is weapon and he is stone. Softness has never rooted itself in his body, and he takes out two of the guards before they shove his head into a bag, cuff his wrists. Even then, he breaks the third man’s knuckles.

It’s too easy. Too easy. He has seen Wood once and he knows – Wood is not easy.

The gang leader is sitting on a metal chair when Marcus blinks back into the light, and Wood is far more intimidating and far less soft in person. Hard jaw, hard eyes, something peculiarly static about how he moves, jolts, from one position to another.

“So.” And the man’s voice is light and playful, cheeky almost. “You’re here to kill me.”

Marcus stays silent.

“So.” Wood stands to his full height, and Marcus feels the graze of Wood’s rolled up sleeve as the leader circles, footsteps tracing on the concrete floor. “You’ll be having dinner with me.”  
  
Marcus doesn’t look up at that because it’s a test – on a subject he’s unsure about because poison is in his arsenal, but when Wood sits down at his plate, there is no taster, and the arsenic Marcus has laced into the fish only makes Wood smirk and request wine.

“Step up your game, if you want to survive.” Wood smiles, blinking and tipping his wine glass dangerously close to spilling on the white tablecloth.

“No.” Marcus says.

“No.” Wood repeats. “Yes, there’s no survival for the dead.”

His hands brush Marcus’ when he clinks their glasses together – Marcus recoils, and Wood just laughs.

***

Marcus Flint sleeps with Oliver Wood on a Wednesday.

Somewhere between all the tests, he’s turned from one shadow to another, from something tailing its owner to kissing its steps on the cold city pavement. Marcus lines up his bullets every night and each morning one disappears into the cabinet next to Wood’s head.

Marcus never misses a shot he takes. Wood knows.

He’s cornered when he runs out of bullets, fingers deftly turning combination codes to acquire more, and Wood draws him up, looks straight through him, and makes his first move. It's the only one needed, really.

Marcus crumbles at the first touch of Wood’s lips. Sharp gasp – soft touch. He hadn’t known he’d wanted it until it happened.

Backs bow, and there is no clawing at skin but a rough, rough ‘don't touch me like that’ electricity between them. It’s another test, just another test but when Wood comes with a soft cry, Marcus wonders if he’s passed or whether he’s been given the wrong sheet in the first place.

He falls two heartbeats later, tries to draw away but Wood keeps pulling, pulling, pulling and the strength does not cooperate in his body to push back.

His mouth tastes like blood later, but no regret, and he can taste the man heavy on his tongue and a hit man does not feel – it’s been pushed out of Marcus since ages ago. Eons, maybe, since someone has held a hand to his chest and felt the heart pumping desperately there. But snakes have taken root in the pit of Marcus’ stomach and for the first time in ages, he _wants_.

Wood brings him to everything, lets him see everything, has Marcus sit in the opposite seat in the front of a darkened car and remarks on how tragically his own assassin is doing over on Malfoy’s side. Marcus wonders whether he will ever return back to Malfoy, because this knowledge is one that is expected to never leave his tongue.

Wood watches him shoot down two of his own guards with clean precision, practice for Marcus in its easiest forms – almost a sport with how Wood smiles and claps his hands mockingly. Wood’s eyes trail over his face and Marcus fights against being stripped bare.

He wants to touch, to trace the line and slight bump of Wood’s nose, but Marcus knows better than leaving his limbs unprotected.

Wood stares at where blood from the guards’ slide slowly down the wall. “You could be better here, you know.”

“No.”

Wood exhales, low and fragile, breath misting up the window shield and when the man climbs onto Marcus’ lap with all the grace of a former athlete, kisses up his neck softly, gently, Marcus realizes the calluses on his fingertips have faded from their hard shells, gun now too heavy to rest comfortably in his hands. He stares at the blood, too.

Marcus knows what’s coming next.

He stays, regardless.

***

Marcus Flint dies on a Friday.

Wood kisses him, sweet as sickly honey, too pale and beautiful against the dark sheets, and then a blade digs into his chest so quickly he barely has time to open his eyes. Blood gurgles in his throat and it burns, burns, stems from the pit of his belly all the way to his temple.

“It’s a pity,” Wood says, moonlight making a false halo around the man as Marcus’ vision fades, “Such a pity that I love you.”

***

It's a Sunday when he's resurrected.

Four redheads, without the rings of the scope, look down at him. Marcus was right in his deductions but he shuts his eyes, waits for the one who killed him.

“Marcus Flint.” Wood’s ( _young, young, unnaturally, un-aging young_ ) face swims back into view. When he tries to talk, Wood clamps his mouth shut, palm firm and unyielding, and smiles, sharp and full of promise.

“You’re mine, now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I just wrote a gang AU where Oliver’s gang is capable of becoming vampires. It wasn’t where I planned for it to go, but it kind of just…happened.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
